


O Holy Night

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Blasphemy, Blood, Masochism, Praise Kink, Restraints, Sadism, Songfic, bondage/discipline, lashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 11:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Elektra, master in the art of causing pain, shouldn’t deserve a master in the art of receiving it, but she does her best.Prompt fill for 12 Days of MattElektra.





	O Holy Night

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to post all my prompt fills in one file, but this was such a hard left turn from the tone of the first prompt, I felt like it deserved its own link. 
> 
> Prompt fill on two counts: one for an anonymous ask requesting Elektra taking care of Matt after lashing him; the second for day 2 of 12 Days of MattElektra - singing/carols or when we're married. I chose carols. And then I had Elektra do a kind of singing of their own variety. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

               Rope tugs against rope, metal against metal; muscle against bone, groans against throat. The voice from the record player declares, rather belatedly, “Fall on your knees.” Matthew is on his knees - he always is - but tonight his arms are twisted in their sockets, straight over his head, bound to place on the back of his neck. His ankles are spread, so his legs rattle the manacles padlocked to brackets newly installed on his living room.

               Billboard light rounds the contours of his ribs and causes the blood on his back to gleam. Spatters pool between his shaking legs.

               Elektra gives him a moment to catch his breath: no easy task through the rope she’s pulled into his mouth as a gag. She appreciates the time for herself too. She threads the whip through her fingers, lets it drag across the floor, brings it across the balls of his feet so his toes curl up tight.

               “You suffer so beautifully,” she says. “My sweet St. Matthew.”

               His chest stops heaving. He steadies himself in the bonds.

               Elektra lets her smile cut across her face like a blade. Her heart races, and Matthew must hear it, because he twists ever-so-slightly so his ear hangs through the gap between his bound arm and head. “A little more suffering, then,” she says, and she swears she sees his back straighten in wicked desperation.

               The whip sings on the air. Elektra draws several circles at her side, causing Matthew to nearly double-over in anticipation, then she lets him have it. The music croons about gentleness and divinity, and Elektra keeps time with lashing, stopping only when Matthew shouts sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus, letting all within him praise her holy name, all within him pay blood tribute to his new God. She’s laughing; she’s breathless, even more breathless than he. Her heart might leap out of her throat if she lashes him further. She might not stop herself, not when he’s swaying, his waist buckling under the weight of his arms so the golden light from the billboard shows her the bloody mess she’s made of his back.

               Elektra tosses the whip aside. She falls to her own knees, catching him in her arms, his bloody back to her chest, her arms around his front, her face in his arms. She breathes with him, celebrating their mutual defeat: he are her hand, she at his.

               She releases his ankles. She unties the ropes from his arms and his face. She helps him to his feet, walks him to the bathroom, and kneels him in the shower. The water makes him jump; he presses his hands against the tiled wall for balance. Elektra hurts him some more with compliments: beautiful, sweet, good. Matthew is so good. And she, a master in the art of causing pain, shouldn’t deserve a master in the art of receiving it.

               He doesn’t fight when she puts him to bed. He buries his face in the pillow as she applies salve to his cuts, as she inspects the deepest of them and debates sutures. The layer of damp gauze makes Matt’s breathing deep and even.

               “Thank you,” he says.

               Elektra rubs at his neck, at the chafed areas of his shoulders formerly bound in rope. She moves onto his legs, massaging the knots from his thighs, from his calves. She digs a thumb into a particularly bad knot, earning a groan before saying, “You’re welcome.”  
  
               She gets him water and juice, some fruit. Matthew isn’t happy to eat out of her hand, and he fights her, but that’s part of their game. Elektra isn’t looking to whip him into submission; she wants to be able to whip him again and again and again.

               “Can I do anything?” Elektra asks, rubbing her fingers across his scalp.

               Matthew is almost asleep. His voice is a lazy drawl. “Put the record on again.”  
   
              She kisses the tip of his nose and does as he requests, returning when the warm instrumental and smooth soprano light up the apartment. She takes a seat next to him, lays her hand on his neck like a collar, and lets the song call the night for what it is: o night divine.

* * *

 Happy Reading!


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